


the long red scratches that burn like hell

by saveourtiredhearts



Series: and it's probable that i like the thrill [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brock is mad, Bucky is bad, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Painplay, Steve is sad, Violence, Whatever you want to call it, You Have Been Warned, a lot of it, alternate universe - freeform, and pretty bad too, dark bucky barnes, if you don't like dark stuff you won't like this, or canon deviation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveourtiredhearts/pseuds/saveourtiredhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inevitable.<br/>The moment Steve met Brock, he knew how this was going to end. After all, hadn't he been down this path already?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the long red scratches that burn like hell

**Author's Note:**

> Was the previous story in this series an AU set in the time of The First Avenger? Or just a messed up headcanon/deviation from literal canon? I'm still not really sure. But let's say this is a continuation of those events, and leave it at that.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [wttlpwrites.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wttlpwrites) You're the absolute best!

This was inevitable.

The moment Steve saw Brock Rumlow smirk, he knew how this would all end. With him in a dark bedroom, with their pants on the ground and his legs in the air and Brock hovering over him.

Smirking.

This was the only way it could end, after all. This was the path Steve had taken before and this is the path Steve takes now and this is the path that Steve will inevitably take again, a path that leads to destruction and ruin.

Brock sits on the couch and Steve sits on the floor and they are worlds away and Steve has never felt more alone, more lost, more at sea.

From the moment he climbed onto the quinjet and was introduced to this man, he knew. How could he not?

 

This was inevitable.

Brock and Steve in a dark corridor and Brock with a weapon in his hand and Steve wide eyed, gasping as Brock nudges his thigh in between his legs.

“Please--” says Steve, moaning, and he doesn’t know where he’s going with this sentence. Whether he’s about to say stop, or keep going, but it doesn’t matter, because Brock taps the baton right up above Steve’s hip, sinking it into soft flesh.

Steve freezes.

Brock waits.

Steve knows what Brock’s doing, knows what he’s waiting for. It was the same with Bucky--never an outright expression of desire unless Steve asked for it. Unless Steve was desperate to have someone in his arms.

Steve can’t remember a time he wasn’t desperate.

“Come home with me,” he whispers, and worries his bottom lip, biting it red.

Brock’s eyes go dark. “Oh, you _are_ a little pain slut,” he says wonderingly.

He doesn’t ride on the motorcycle with Steve. They go to Steve’s apartment, and they fuck and Brock leaves and Steve--

 

This was inevitable.

Another bedroom, another mission. Another tumbling onto the bed, and then Brock draws out the toy he and Steve haven’t played with yet, and Steve doesn’t know what to do.

It’s a gun.

A real, live, handgun, with probably a bullet or two inside, recently used, and a metallic gray. It’s shiny. Brock takes care of his weapons.

“Hard limit,” Steve says, shaking his head, and it’s a good thing Brock hasn’t put the gag in yet. He’d back away, but he’s tied to the hotel bed, sheets stripped off, and naked. “Hard limit, Brock--”

“I thought you said you didn’t do hard limits,” says Brock, eyes narrowing. He’s still dressed. “I distinctly remember hearing those words come out of your mouth. Was I wrong?”

Steve swallows.

Brock frowns. Moves away. "You want me to go,” he states. "There’s an empty bedroom across the hallway, I guess I can--”

“N-no,” says Steve. Brock stops backing away, raises an eyebrow.

Steve’s eyes flick away, then back. He tries to grin. “I want this.” He breathes in, out. “I want you.”

Brock’s smile turns wicked. “Sweetheart, you were _made_ for a gun up your ass,” he says wonderingly, with steel and bite in his mouth. He moves closer. “See? Hard limits don’t exist with you.” He drags the barrel of the gun down Steve’s stomach and Steve--

Doesn’t try to break the bonds they both know he could rip apart in seconds.

Perhaps this is his punishment.

Brock smirks. “There we go, whore,” he sing songs. “Here we go, baby.”

This is the end of the end of the end of the end of the end of the end--

 

This was inevitable.

He’s at Sam’s, with Natasha, and he’s fighting to keep it together, he’s fighting, he’s never stopped fighting--

And then Natasha hands him a gun, and he _flinches--_

Sam and Natasha both stare at him.

“Cap?” asks Sam uncertainly.

Steve shakes his head, reaches a hand out for the gun. “Sorry,” he says. _Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--_

Natasha pulls away from him. “Brock,” she bites out.

Steve looks away.

“Brock?” asks Sam. Steve can hear the confusion in his voice. He swallows, hard.

How do you tell someone something that you yourself can hardly believe is true?

“I can’t--” Steve tries, and stops. “We need to go,” he says, trying to fall back into Captain America. “We have to go. The helicarriers--Bucky--” He stops again.

He turns to find Natasha and Sam still staring.

“Bucky,” says Natasha, and it’s not a question, except in all the ways it is.

“Stop,” says Steve, and he’s begging now. “Stop. Not now, please, I can’t.”

Natasha, as gentle as she can be, nods. She still doesn't hand over the gun.

Steve’s not sure if he wants her to.

 

This was inevitable.

You can’t separate Bucky from Steve but you sure as hell can separate Steve from Bucky, because Steve’s been ripped out of Bucky like he was never there at all.

The gun in Bucky’s hand, at least, is familiar. The way he flips his knife, the way it sparkles in the air before his fingers wrap themselves around it once more, like the apples from so long ago.

The pain, at least, is familiar. His thighs hurt, and he can barely breathe and it’s just like the good old days, isn’t it Buck?

“I’m your friend,” gasps Steve. His blood is singing. His eyes are wet.

“You’re my mission,” Bucky growls back.

And it’s just like old times, and Steve can almost imagine a bed beneath them, or the hard wood floor of their Brooklyn apartment, as Bucky climbs on top of him, punches Steve in the face, again and again and--

Why is he saving Bucky?

He’s always wanted Bucky.

He’s never had him.

Steve is fucked up, and he’s been fucked, and he still can’t explain why it feels like he’s shouting through a wall, blocked off in a small corner where no one can touch him, no one can see him. Bucky saw him when he was small, saw him as Steve Rogers, as Stevie, as Sweetheart, and maybe that’s all he’s ever wanted, to be seen. It’s a selfish explanation, a bad explanation.

Why is he saving Bucky?

Bucky is merely an extension of Self.

Bucky, perhaps, once loved Steve.

Maybe. Possibly. Steve hopes.

Why is he saving Bucky?

Because Steve doesn’t know what else to do.

“‘til the end of the line,” Steve splutters, and he waits for the end (of the end of the end of the end--)

 

“Bucky,” says Natasha, and they’re back in Sam’s house.

Everywhere else is a shithole, a chaotic mess, but Steve likes to imagine Sam’s house as the constant eye of the storm, a place to wait out the weather no matter the sky.

“He pulled me out,” says Steve. It's not an answer.

Sam’s in the kitchen, but everything has seemed very far away to Steve since he got out of the hospital. Like he nudged something he didn’t know was out of place, and the whole world just shifted right along with it.

“He hurt you,” says Natasha.

“That's what happens when someone shoots you three times.”

Natasha shakes her head, but before she can speak, Sam comes into the living room. He places three cups of tea on the coffee table, and maneuvers so he’s sitting next to Steve.

“You don’t have to tell us,” says Sam softly, and Steve can’t face him. “We’re not going to push you.”

But Sam and Natasha? They’ve stayed with him, stuck with him, even when he was falling apart.

They deserve _something._ Whatever explanation he can come up with.

He can’t come up with one.

“I loved Bucky,” says Steve. He’s not looking at them, he’s not looking. “I love--”

Did he? Does he?

“I needed him.” Yes. And? “He needed me” So? “It wasn’t--It wasn’t always--”

“Consensual,” says Natasha. Steve shudders.

“I needed him,” he says again, helplessly.

There was no Steve without Bucky, no Bucky without Steve. They balanced each other out, they always had each other, it was them against the world, ‘til the end of the line--

Whatever that meant. However far they had to go.

How do you explain that?

Steve can’t.

“And Brock?” asks Natasha. This, at least, is easier. This, at least, makes sense.

“The first time I saw him, I thought he was Bucky.” Steve stares out the window of the living room, but he doesn’t see Sam’s lawn. Instead, he sees snow, and there’s a cold brush of air against his cheek. Steve shudders, speaks. “It was inevitable.”

The three of them sit in the afternoon sunlight, with cooling cups of tea set before them.

“What now?” asks Sam.

As if he doesn’t know.

“I’m bringing Bucky back.” Steve says it  with certainty, with no room for objection.

Sam and Natasha don’t try.

 

Why is he saving Bucky?

Why has he always tried to save Bucky?

Because it’s always been the only way to save Steve.

 

He goes to Brock in the hospital because Steve hates himself. He hated who he was and he hates who he’s become, and he’s always been self-loathing, and that’s why it was so easy--

Well.

He visits Brock, and he does it with a gun in his hand and Steve brings the gun into the room. Brock’s lying, so peaceful, on the hospital bed. It’s almost like he’s waiting.

It would only take one shot.

(It’s a shot Steve’s never taken.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you, uh...enjoyed?  
> Send me a hello on [tumblr!]()


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